


The Leviathan

by wendymr



Category: Lewis (TV)
Genre: M/M, post-episode, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-04-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:37:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wendymr/pseuds/wendymr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I was actually debating whether being likened to Leviathan is less objectionable than to Beelzebub."</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Leviathan

**Author's Note:**

> Set following _Old, Unhappy, Far-Off Things_. With many thanks to Lindenharp and Uniquepov for BRing.

The officiant brings the service to a close, and the final music is still playing when Robbie stands to make his exit. 

There aren’t many people in the small chapel, and none he recognises, thankfully. Although he wanted to pay his respects to the woman who was once his sergeant, he doesn’t want to get caught up in what are certain to be awkward conversations with whatever family members or friends are here. He doesn’t think that anyone besides himself, James and Innocent know the truth about Ali – there was no point; she was dead – but he knows now and he doesn’t want to have to answer questions about who he is and what was his relationship with her.

As he turns to leave, he’s just in time to catch a glimpse of a tall, thin figure in a long black overcoat as the man slips through the door and outside. 

Even that brief glimpse is enough for Robbie to recognise James Hathaway. But what on earth is he doing here?

He hadn’t told James he was going to the funeral, or when it would be, even. Not that those gaps in information would challenge any half-decent detective, even one without his sergeant’s massive brain. 

Why James is here, though: that’s another question. Can’t possibly be to pay his respects. For _him_? Has to be. James has been more than usually protective of him on this last case – which shouldn’t be surprising, should it? Any time they run into anything that brings back memories of Val or how she died, or anyone who gets too intrusive on the subject of Robbie’s personal life, that’s when James’s protective instincts are at their strongest.

Ali was his sergeant at the time Val died – is that it? Or just that she was his sergeant and, despite everything they’ve found out since, James understands that he still regrets her death and would want to say his farewell? But would the stupid sod really come all the way out to Headington just on the off-chance that Robbie needed moral support?

Robbie pulls a face. This is James; of course he would. But that still doesn’t explain why James was at the service. Hathaway’s no hypocrite – completely the opposite, in fact. He doesn’t mouth empty platitudes, or pretend things that he doesn’t feel. He seemed to take against Ali right from the start, and once he found out what she’d been up to that turned to the kind of disgust James reserves for particularly nasty criminals. He hadn’t said anything; few coppers have any time for one of their own turned dirty, after all.

No; if James were just here to offer moral support, he’d have waited outside, or in the car park. He wouldn’t have attended the funeral.

Robbie’s hurrying outside as his mind processes the facts and comes up with unanswered questions. But James isn’t waiting for him, and it’s a second or two before he sees a blond head at the far end of the car park.

“James!” No reaction; his sergeant is getting into his car. “Hathaway!” he calls, louder, and this time James looks up, and Robbie notes the resignation in his stance as he straightens and waits for his governor to approach.

“Sir,” he says, expressionless, as Robbie comes within earshot.

Robbie doesn’t ask the obvious question; he knows his sergeant too well for that. “What you rushin’ off for?” he asks instead. “You might at least come an’ have a drink with me, since you’re here.”

It’s obvious that James wants to decline, but instead he nods. “Where?”

“Follow me to the Vic.” Without waiting for a response, Robbie turns to make for his own car. The Victoria Arms in Marston is close to ten minutes away, but it’s one of their favourite spots and better than anything local to the crem – besides, he’d rather not risk running into any of the mourners.

It’s not really warm enough to sit outside, even with their coats, but in deference to James’s smoking habit Robbie leads the way to a table overlooking the river. In the late afternoon sunlight, the remaining frost and ice glistens, catching the light.

James has a cigarette in his hand even before they sit, but Robbie notes that he plays with it instead of lighting up. Ah. So it’s gonna be like that, then.

“So, what were you doing at the funeral?” Now that James can’t just jump into his car and leave, it’s time for the direct question.

His sergeant gives him a bland look. “Why does anyone go to funerals?”

Robbie shrugs, as if it’s not important. “Was just surprised to see you there, that’s all. I know you didn’t think much of her.”

James looks away, and then, as if that’s not enough, covers his face with his hand. Robbie resigns himself to the inevitable: either he’s going to have to push if he really wants an answer – and, since this doesn’t have anything at all to do with their professional relationship or James’s position as a police officer, he doesn’t exactly have the right to demand answers – or James will brush him off, making clear that it’s none of his business. Which it isn’t, of course.

What he won’t get are lies. He’s absolutely confident of that. James hasn’t lied to him since Crevecoeur, when he accepted the lad’s promise that he’ll never lie to him again. “If there’s something you can’t or don’t want to tell me, then that’s what you say to me,” he’d told James in private after it was all done and dusted. “If I find out the truth later an’ it’s bad for you, so be it. We’ll deal with the consequences, whatever they may be. You don’t lie to me. That’s the one thing that’d finish us. I mean that,” he’d emphasised. “You lie to me once more, you’ll be looking for a new governor.”

His harsh words, he knew, had added to the shame James had already been feeling, and for once his sergeant hadn’t tried to hide his emotion behind a blank expression. He’d allowed Robbie to see all the humiliation and remorse he’d been feeling, and he’d sworn, a sincere promise Robbie knew he intended to keep, that there’d be no more lies.

It had taken a while for things to get back to normal after that, but in the year since then their relationship, if anything, has been stronger, and the trust between them deeper. They’ve been more, not less, likely to confide in each other, even if James is still very secretive about many aspects of his life – and Robbie has made clear by his behaviour that he respects James’s right to his privacy. 

As he’ll respect James’s right now, despite his curiosity, if he has to. 

Watching James’s posture, though, it becomes clear to Robbie that he is going to get an answer. James straightens, squares his shoulders and takes a deep breath, in the manner of someone who’s resigned himself to an unwanted task. He doesn’t look at Robbie, though, and it’s several moments before he says, “I had no right to... react to her that way.”

Okay, so the lad’s got himself into one of his ridiculous guilt trips for some reason. Robbie sighs. “Oh, come on. You were right to, given what we found out about her.”

“No.” James turns back to face him, and the remorse in his face is all too visible. “I reacted negatively towards her almost from the moment you introduced us. At the time, I had no reason to suspect anything untoward.” He hangs his head briefly before looking up again. “That’s why I attended the funeral. As a gesture of contrition, you could say.” 

Resisting the urge to roll his eyes, Robbie sips at his pint, watching James over the rim of his glass. “You didn’t like her – so what? I don’t like some of the people we meet on a daily basis, including some of the murder victims. You’re not obliged to like everyone you meet, you know.”

“No, sir, you don’t understand.” James lights his cigarette at last, making a bit of a mess of it. “I didn’t dislike her. I resented her.”

Robbie frowns, brows furrowed. “What on earth for?” They’d never met before. Or, at least, he assumed they hadn’t, and neither of them had said otherwise. But they would both have been part of Oxford CID at the same time – probably for as much as four years. Ali’d been transferred out of the city centre nick by the time he got back from the BVI, but still... “Did you have a run-in with her before? Or was it something you heard?”

James shakes his head sharply before taking a long drag on his cigarette. “Neither.”

“Then...?”

Tapping away some ash, James says, “I would prefer not to answer, sir, on the grounds that it might... incriminate me.” He’s completely serious, not an ounce of facetiousness in his voice. 

“For god’s sake, man, it’s not an interrogation! Course you don’t have to answer. Like I said, I’m just curious, that’s all.” And even more curious now, Robbie acknowledges, though he lets the subject drop. “Been meaning to ask you: how’s that smoking cessation thing going? Not well, I assume.” He gestures at the half-smoked cigarette between James’s lips.

“It ceased,” James comments, completely deadpan. 

“Ha bloody ha.” Robbie takes another drink. “What’s next, then? Patches?”

“I tried them years ago. They were impressively ineffective – I seemed to crave a cigarette even more than usual while wearing them.”

“Trust you to be different.” Robbie smirks. “Y’know, I saw an ad in the paper the other week for some sort of new-fangled electronic cigarette. Maybe you’ll find one in your Christmas stocking.”

Exactly as he’d hoped, he gets a sour look from James in response. “Maybe you’ll find alcohol-free lager in yours. And a book of vegetarian recipes.”

“I’ll save the beer for when you come over, then.” Robbie leans back and drains his pint. “Another? Or should I make it tonic water, since you were doin’ penance?”

“Very droll, sir.” James downs his pint as well, and hands Robbie the glass. “I suppose, were I to say yes, I might find a hair-shirt in my Christmas stocking as well?”

“Nah. Two presents? I’m not made of money, y’know!”

______________________________________

When he comes back with two fresh pints, James is making inroads on another cigarette and looks deep in thought.

“Earth to Hathaway!” Robbie announces as he sets the glasses down. “Unless you’re about to have a ground-breaking idea about how to persuade Innocent that weekly written reports are a massive waste of working detectives’ time...”

James’s gaze refocuses on Robbie, almost like a large, sleepy cat slowly deciding to pay attention. “Disappointingly, no, sir. I was actually debating whether being likened to Leviathan is less objectionable than to Beelzebub.”

“Come again?” Robbie blinks.

James straightens and taps the ash from his cigarette. “In the fifteenth and sixteenth century, it was fashionable among theologians, artists and philosophers to create imagery centred around Heaven, Hell, the virtues, the deadly sins and so on. Lollard matched the deadly sin of envy to Beelzebub somewhere in the 1400s, and there’s debate as to whether it was St Thomas Aquinas or Peter Binsfield who chose Leviathan as the demon of envy – Binsfield is recorded as having done so in 1589, but of course Aquinas would have been writing more than three hundred years earlier.”

“Of course,” Robbie echoes sardonically. All right, where’s this coming from now? Though the crucial word in what James has just said is obvious. “Envy, eh? You envied Ali? What on earth for? That doesn’t make sense, man. Even without what we found out later, she resigned from the police under a bit of a cloud, an’ was running a business that was obviously struggling.”

James dips his head, staring into his pint. “I am aware that it wasn’t a very rational reaction.”

And that, it appears, is all James intends to say, for he lapses into silence, looking up only to take a drag on his cigarette and exhale into the wintry evening.

 _Work it out, Robbie_. The lad’s given him enough clues, surely. Envy. Like jealousy. Wanting something someone else has. Resenting that person for having it. James had kept his distance from Ali at the boatyard, and refused – except when it was unavoidable – to join in the casual banter. When Ali had turned up at the nick, he’d gone distant again and refused the invitation to join the two of them for a drink. In fact, he’d seemed put out that Robbie had made arrangements to go for a drink with Ali in the first place.

Had he seen Ali’s presence as an intrusion? Felt threatened in some way – but how? Why? 

Casually, Robbie takes another drink, studying James out of the corner of his eye. The bloke’s sitting stiffly now, nervousness in every awkward line of his body. He thinks he’s said too much, given too much away. 

Just as he looked the other morning, after Robbie discovered him having worked all night on that timeline. _You said something wasn’t right._ And James wouldn’t even look at him as he said it.

_Oh, you stupid, blind idiot, Robbie Lewis._

It’s all about him, isn’t it? Or, more specifically, James’s feelings for him.

James hero-worships him – no, that’s not right. He’s well aware of his boss’s imperfections, and there’s nothing worshipful about his attitude. Loyal, yes; protective, caring; even, possibly, fond at times. But what he did in putting together that timeline, and his embarrassment on being asked why... there’s only one answer that makes sense. Though at the same time it doesn’t make any sense at all, because why on earth would James feel that way about someone like him? 

And then immediately afterwards Robbie had dragged him off to see Ali, resulting in a conversation in which James could well have felt he’d been sidelined – and then he’d arranged to go for a drink with Ali and hadn’t mentioned anything to James until she’d turned up. The invitation to join them had to have felt like an afterthought. 

“Idiot,” he says, shaking his head at the lad. “You might be the second bagman I’ve had, but do I really have to tell you that you’re me best mate?”

“You’re very kind, sir.” James’s tone is dry as dust, and his expression gives little away. “You are, however, very expressive. I know what you’re pretending not to have figured out and, since you have, I should assure you that it’s nothing that need worry you.”

 _But I wasn’t worried_ , Robbie almost says, stopping himself as it occurs to him that it’s probably something that should bother him. His sergeant in love with him? Male or female, it’s still potentially a problem, for all sorts of reasons. On the other hand, if it hadn’t been for James’s reaction to Ali, Robbie would never have known. With any luck, that means he can ignore it and they can just get back to the way things were.

Though... “There’s one thing that doesn’t make sense. Well, more than one thing,” he adds wryly. “This, though. You’ve been encouraging me towards Laura for months.”

James shrugs, expression self-deprecating. “I’m not stupid, nor completely unrealistic. I’ve always known that the probability of... anything, with you... is zero. So if there’s a chance for you to be happy with someone who’s good for you – and there’s no doubt that Laura Hobson is – then whatever my own wishes...” His lips twist downwards.

“I suppose that makes sense.” Robbie drains his pint, then stands. “Had about as much as I can take of freezing out of doors. I’m goin’ home.”

“Sir...” The anxiety on James’s face makes him pause, and he steps around the table to lay a hand on the bloke’s shoulder.

“You’re all right.” He squeezes the bony shoulder encouragingly. “If it doesn’t bother you, it doesn’t bother me. Let’s just get back to normal, eh?”

“Thank you, sir.” 

For the rest of the evening, Robbie can’t get the thought out of his mind that James had effectively thanked him for confirming that his feelings weren’t, and wouldn’t be, returned. Which, true or not, is hardly something anyone should have to pretend gratitude for.

______________________________________

Over the next couple of weeks, despite Robbie’s hopes and good intentions, things don’t return to normal. It takes him a few days to realise it, but in the end he has to acknowledge that it’s his fault, not James’s.

James behaves almost exactly as he always has. The only difference is that he doesn’t stand or sit quite as close to Robbie as he used to. He maintains an inch or two greater distance on a street bench, or if he’s leaning over Robbie’s shoulder to explain something or guide Robbie through one of his complicated spreadsheets. The difference is so slight that Robbie suspects no-one else would notice, and it’s only that he’s so attuned to James, and so used to the comfortable way things are between them, that the extra couple of inches’ gap feels like the length of a cricket crease.

No, it’s not James’s doing. It’s Robbie’s. Because, no matter how hard he tries to ignore it, he can’t forget. It’s not the fact that his sergeant is in love with him, though that still leaves him bemused and occasionally questioning the bloke’s sanity. Him, of all people? A gruff Northern widower, a few years from retirement at best, with no education beyond a couple of A-levels and his police exams, and a tendency towards curmudgeonly? No oil painting even when he was younger, and now sagging around the jowls and the middle, and hair thinning at the front? James must be insane.

But that’s not what he can’t forget. It’s the matter-of-fact acceptance in James’s voice, in his face, when he’d said that he had no expectation that what he wanted for himself could ever happen. All right, it’s not as if it was hard for James to work out that Robbie wasn’t going to be falling into his arms. But that he still felt the same way regardless, even having resigned himself to reality... Robbie can hardly dismiss the bloke’s feelings as a crush.

He can’t help wondering how long James has felt this way, and part of him wishes he’d asked, but at the same time he suspects the answer would shame him. Because, yes, now that he thinks back, it’s been obvious for a long time. 

Most unsettling of all, and what’s preventing the resumption of normality, is the growing realisation that he knows exactly why the knowledge that James is in love with him doesn’t trouble him.

______________________________________

“You busy this evening, James?”

It’s been a fairly quiet day at the station, something which Robbie had expected – they’ve recently solved their latest case, a confession has been extracted and it’s just paperwork now. They’re still a couple of places from the top of the call rotation, so they should have another day or two of reprieve before things get busy again.

“No, sir. Do you need me to work late?”

“Nah, not what I meant. Come over for dinner.”

It’s not often that James actually looks astonished, and it takes a moment or two for him to recover. “Thank you for the invitation, sir. Is there some particular reason...?”

He shrugs. “Been a while since you’ve been at the flat for an evening. Thought it’d be nice.” And he’s just glad that he’s not the one who made the promise never to lie to his partner again.

James just nods, seemingly taking him at his word. “What time? And is there anything I should bring? Beer? Wine? Takeaway?”

“Cheeky sod. I can do more in the kitchen than throw a ready meal into the microwave, y’know.”

James’s lips tilt upwards. “I look forward to discovering your talents, in that case.”

______________________________________

James is due any minute now, and Robbie can’t remember when he’s last been this nervous. The food’s under control, the chicken and red wine casserole simmering away in the oven. The table’s laid, a decent Merlot is breathing on the counter, and a classical guitar CD is playing softly in the background.

And he’s spent the last ten minutes trying to decide whether it’s too much, and if he should just have gone for a couple of chops, baked potatoes and a four-pack of Bridge.

Maybe the music is a bit much. And the mood lighting might be just a bit too... moody?

The knock at the door makes him jump. Bugger. Too late to change anything now. He takes a deep breath as he makes his way along the hallway, trying to calm himself.

James has changed out of his suit, and is wearing slacks and a crisply-ironed pale purple shirt, and he’s carrying a six-pack of bitter. He’s also looking about as nervous as Robbie feels. But he follows Robbie inside readily enough. 

In the kitchen, Robbie waits for James to laugh or make some mocking comment, but he doesn’t. Instead, he raises his eyebrows in a surprised look, and without comment goes to inspect the CD cover. He turns back, holding it. “I didn’t know you were a fan of Christopher Parkening, sir.”

He’s not. Never even heard of the bloke before his visit to Blackwell’s at lunchtime. But the sales clerk assured him that Parkening is one of the foremost contemporary classical guitarists in the world and that he couldn’t go wrong with this recording. “You like it?” he asks James.

“This CD is on my iPod.” James comes over to take the glass of wine Robbie’s just poured, and sits while Robbie serves dinner.

Conversation’s awkward at first – Robbie can’t think of a thing to say – but James saves him by telling an anecdote about getting completely lost during Freshers’ Week at Cambridge and winding up in a transvestite club. From there, it’s easier; Robbie talks about growing up in Newcastle and his time in Vice, and James asks about the Morse years, and before he knows it their plates are empty and the wine-bottle’s almost drained.

“I got some of those chocolate fancies you like for dessert,” Robbie offers as he clears the table. 

James pulls a face. “Full.” He stands and empties the bottle into Robbie’s glass, then puts it in the recycling bin. Robbie opens a second bottle and brings it to the coffee-table, then turns to find James facing him, looking faintly bewildered. “Not that this hasn’t been lovely, sir, and I’m touched that you went to all this trouble, but... I don’t understand.”

Robbie swallows. He was going to lead up to an explanation in his own time – well, once he’d worked out how he was going to do it. “Don’t understand what?” 

James rakes a hand through his hair, making the spikes stand up. “When you invited me over,” he begins, tone now uncertain in a way that makes Robbie want to kick himself for doing that to the lad, “I couldn’t help thinking that you were going to... well, let me down lightly. It’s obvious that things have been a bit – awkward – over the past couple of weeks, and I know that’s my fault. I assumed you were going to tell me that you’d decided to reassign me to another inspector. But now I’m not so sure.”

“No,” Robbie says immediately. “No, it’s not that. Nothing like.” He tugs at his ear. “I... well, I wanted to...” He swallows, and tries to search for the right words.

“I think I can guess – at least, I know what it looks like.” Again, James sounds uncertain. “But what I don’t understand is why. This... It would make sense if I were Dr Hobson. Then, I’d know exactly what was going on.”

Robbie turns to pour James another glass of wine, mainly so that he doesn’t have to look at the lad when he says it. “An’ why should it be different because it’s you?”

“I... Sir...” It’s rare that James is so lost for words. “I know you don’t – _can’t_ – return my feelings. You’re not attracted to men. I’ve always known that.”

Robbie makes himself look at James again, and finds the bloke watching him, part-hopeful, part-certain of rejection. And suddenly he knows exactly what he needs to say. “Thought I knew that, too. But I’m not stupid either.” He beckons to the couch, and waits until they’re both sitting before continuing. “I know what it’s like to find the person who... well, sounds corny, but who makes me life complete. I had that with Val. Never thought I’d have it again, until I started thinking an’ realised that I do have it. I’m not stupid enough to reject it just ‘cause it comes in a different package than I might’ve expected. Yeah, I’ll have some adjusting to do, an’ I don’t know how this is gonna work, including the fact that I’m your boss – but the most important thing is that I want this – you an’ me – to work. I just hope you do too.”

Through most of his speech, James looks stunned, but as Robbie gets to the end a wide smile spreads across the bloke’s face, full of joy and hope and a happiness Robbie can’t remember ever seeing in James before. “I do,” he says with emphasis. “I really do.”

“That’s good, then.” Robbie’s smiling too, and he can’t look away from his partner and friend and... whatever they’re about to be to each other. Going on six years they’ve known each other now, and he can’t imagine his life without James in it. Can’t imagine wanting to go to work every day without knowing that James will be at his side, ready with a smartarse quip, an apposite quote or just the right words at the right time for the right situation. He really is closer to James than to anyone else in his life, including Lyn.

And, yes, James is his sergeant, and there’s definitely a conflict of interest and Innocent wouldn’t be happy, but they can face that if and when it becomes a problem. It’s not as if he’s far from retirement, anyway. They’ll figure it out.

“Yeah.” James is still looking at him, amusement now starting to filter through the wonder in his eyes, and it dawns on Robbie that they’ve just been sitting there staring at each other since his big speech. 

“You might have to help me out here,” he suggests. “Been a while since I’ve done anything like this. Not really sure what happens next.”

James’s smile turns into a grin. “Should I take it that Mrs Lewis was generally the initiator in your relationship, sir?”

Cheeky sod, he wants to say, but if they’re going to do this then their status difference, and his position of authority in their relationship, has to be left behind at work. “Maybe sometimes,” he concedes.

James shifts closer to him, and raises his hand, bringing it up to cup the side of Robbie’s face. “Let’s try this.”

Robbie shifts closer, meeting James’s gaze and recognising the affection, the want in his eyes. And that’s familiar, whatever package it comes in – as is the way he feels in return. Once he let himself think of James not as his sergeant, or even as a bloke, but just as someone he cares about and who cares about him, the rest was... well, not simple, but possible.

He leans in and brings their lips together, and it’s lovely.

______________________________________

“Sir?” James is slouched against him on the sofa, head resting on his shoulder as they watch some rubbish detective series.

“Mm-hm?” He frowns then as James’s form of address registers. “It’s Robbie, soft lad. Whatever you might think, I _don’t_ get off on all that sub-dom stuff!”

“And you think I do?” James sounds incredulous, but amused. “Robbie, then. I wasn’t going to presume.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Just because he can, Robbie leans across and kisses James again, enjoying the warmth that spreads through him at the contact. “So, what? You were gonna ask me something?”

He just hopes James isn’t expecting any more nonsense about when or how he decided that this was worth a try, because he’s never been into talking about that sort of stuff, not even with Val. He wants James and James wants him, and that’s what matters. 

James’s lips twitch faintly. “I was just going to say that clearly I was wrong. You do have hidden talents, s- Robbie.”

Pleased, Robbie grins and reaches for James to kiss him again. Val always did rate his talents in that regard; it’s good to know he hasn’t lost his touch.

“Nice,” James murmurs as Robbie pulls back. “Though I was talking about the casserole. I hope this means you’re in charge of the kitchen from here on?”

Robbie snorts. “Only on days with a J in them. An’ only then if you’re lucky.”

James blinks, then tilts his head to one side. “What if I change my name to Yames?”

“Smartarse.” Robbie grabs a cushion and launches it at James, who dodges the blow and instead takes advantage of the opportunity of access to Robbie’s neck, and within minutes Robbie’s thinking that he really doesn’t care who does the cooking as long as James keeps doing exactly _that_ as long as possible.

Maybe he’ll sneak it into the bloke’s job description.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] The Leviathan by wendymr](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5743813) by [fire_juggler](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fire_juggler/pseuds/fire_juggler)




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